


devouring time, blunt thou the lion's paws

by QueenOfSapphires



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Brienne is too good for this fuckboy honestly, Character Death Fix, Episode: s08e05 The Bells, F/M, Fix-It, Forgiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 20:24:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18818356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfSapphires/pseuds/QueenOfSapphires
Summary: Just breathe and pretend this episode never happened.An absolutely vital Braime fix-it for s08e05 - The Bells.





	devouring time, blunt thou the lion's paws

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I think it’s safe to say that they’ve ruined the greatest redemption arc in TV’s history. Had to get this out of my system, otherwise I’d’ve punched something.
> 
> Apologies for inaccuracies or whatever, but I CANNOT make myself watch it again.
> 
> (And what a terrible, anticlimactic death for Cersei! I’ve been waiting for her to die properly FOR YEARS.)

 

She breaks, like the walls that are crumbing around them.

She begs him not to let her die. Not to let their child die. He’s searching for a way out, bleeding out, mumbling some nonsense about that not being important anymore. The child does not matter.

They do, however. He has to get them out of there so that he can end this once and for all. And then he sees it, the smallest breach in the walls, just big enough for them to slip through. They make it out onto the blinding sunshine a second before the ceiling collapses.

She’s breathing heavily, clutching her belly, falling onto her knees, sobbing. He stands behind her, doesn’t move yet, but the decision had been made long before this moment. Maybe on the road to King’s Landing… but no, it must’ve been earlier, in Winterfell, just when he heard about Rhaegal’s death and feared the dragon’s mother might not succeed after all. Or even earlier still, when it turned out he couldn’t flirt to save his life, but the room was so bloody hot it gave him an excuse to bare himself anyway.

“Cersei,” he rasps, just one more time. She turns on her knees to face him and her face falls. She must see something final in his eyes.

“No,” she whispered. “I—“

She remembers the third part of the witch’s prophecy, the one she had nightmares about. _And when your tears have drowned you, the valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you…_

“I’m hateful,” Jaime says. A tear rolls down his cheek and disappears in his grizzled beard. In that exact moment, he feels so old and tired. “And so are you.”

And he leaps for her, relentless, because she deserves no more mercy.

*

He grieved during the weeks it took him to return home.

Each hour, each day, each week it became easier and easier, but he knew the memory would never vanish entirely. Her lifeless face would haunt him forever. It came to him in the night, when he wriggled in his bedding, or tried to stay awake on the back of his horse, but drifted off every few minutes still. Then, she came. Her green eyes, identical to his own, slightly open mouth sunken into her grey face, wet from tears. She didn’t even resist much, as if she had known this would have to happen like that.

He would wake with a terrible howl, not unlike the one that escaped his mouth the second she died, and which was carried away by the ocean further, maybe even for Tyrion to hear.

His physical wounds healed slowly but surely. He ditched his golden hand along the way, after having decided he no longer wanted to bear his given name. The hand was too strong a reminder of the once-relevant Lannister wealth. Now, he was just Jaime.

The last few days of his journey, when it started getting so cold he had to wear his cloak at all times, he couldn’t sleep at all. He just lay at night, staring at the stars. He didn’t think he deserved to be able to admire their beauty.

Kingslayer. Now Queenslayer. Or was Cersei even Queen anymore when he strangled her with his bare hand? He didn’t suppose it mattered anymore.

During the last sleepless night, he vowed to himself never to take another life again.

*

Of course they don’t let him enter through the gate, even though he has no hand, no sword, no armour, nothing. But luck is at his side, for somehow he recognises a lad who is coming back to the castle from a nearby village, and the boy recognises him as well, and promises to deliver a message to Sansa Stark. So he waits patiently at the edge of a forest, sits with his back against a tree. It takes so long he eventually nods off from exhaustion.

Whispers wake him up. He opens his eyes slowly to the sight of Lady Stark, graceful and powerful, silhouetted against the winter scenery and her castle, surrounded by several armed men. Some of them keep their hands firmly on the handles of their swords, others keep their bows stretched, arrows pointing at his face.

“Ser Jaime Lannister,” she welcomes him, vitriol evident in her voice.

“It is not, not anymore,” he says, standing up clumsily. He raises his handless limb, trying to reassure her of his good intentions. “My lady,” he continues, trying to muster every last bit of courtesy he has within him, “I do not expect you to accept my presence at Winterfell. I suppose you must have received some news from the capitol by now. Ravens travel fast. Certainly faster than old men like me.”

“Possibly,” says Sansa. “But why don’t you present your own version of the happenings in King’s Landing, Kingslayer?”

“Forgive me, my lady, but I do not know much. After fulfilling my duty, I prepared for the journey back right away.”

“And what duty that was?”

He does not hesitate, not even for a second. “In your name, I killed Cersei Lannister.”

A murmur of astonishment spreads through the Stark men, but there is also another voice, higher and more distinctive. The voice gasps in surprise and the sound of footsteps on snow follows.

He wonders why he hasn’t seen her before, with her height and the shock of blonde hair, now slightly tousled by wind. She approaches tentatively, sapphire eyes widened in shock. She wears the armour he once had fitted for her, and keeps her hand on the Oathkeeper.

He falls down to his knees. “Ser,” he says, voice shaking. “There is—I—“

No. He will not allow his own words to fail him now.

And yet, they do. He suddenly finds it hard to draw breath. Perhaps it is because of the overpowering anxiety, but an utterly ridiculous thought appears in his head. _It’s bloody cold in here_. She would not appreciate it, he knows, such a blatant reference to their only night together. So he just stammers once more, asking forgiveness and offering the whole of himself to her.

Brienne takes a long, mindful look at him. And then, she does the exact same thing she did when he asked to serve under her command in the Battle for Winterfell. She nods her head ever so slightly. And she calls him “Jaime.”

Only then is he truly able to breathe again.

**Author's Note:**

> Cheers for reading, everyone.
> 
> I feel mildly better? I think? Now, excuse me while I cry myself to sleep over Jaime’s shattered character arc.
> 
> Apologies for any mistakes – I’ll either edit it tomorrow or never come back to it again.
> 
> Don’t you just love Shakespeare? He wrote the best fanfiction titles over half a millennium ago. This one comes from Sonnet 19.


End file.
